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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035884">Haunted</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown'>WhumpTown</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hurting Hotch [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Criminal Minds (US TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dave acting like Emily and Hotch's dad, Fluff, Gen, Hurt Aaron Hotchner, Hurt Hotch, Hurt/Comfort</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:22:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhumpTown/pseuds/WhumpTown</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey.” </p><p>He sighs. Tired and bothered he’d rather close himself off to the world but Emily’s standing in the doorway to his room with a blanket and a bucket of popcorn. </p><p>She offers him a tentative smile, “I can’t sleep.”</p><p>He resigns himself to a similar fate. He hasn’t slept well all week now that there’s the added stress of a new case. It's safe to say he won’t be sleeping at all. So, he opens his door and beckons her in. They share the space of his bed, her pajamas, and him stripped of his tie and shoes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaron Hotchner &amp; David Rossi, Aaron Hotchner &amp; Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner &amp; Jack Hotchner, Aaron Hotchner &amp; The BAU Team, Aaron Hotchner/Emily Prentiss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Hurting Hotch [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755046</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>86</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Haunted</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I have been watching Criminal Minds to get over being at home (which is very stressful because I hate it here) and am struggling to stop myself from diving back into writing for this fandom all the time but like</p><p>kinda wanna keep doing it</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>&lt; i&gt;“When people show you who they are, believe them.” <b>-Maya Angelou</b></p><p>Out of the corner of her eye, Reid stands with the rest of his paperwork clutched in both hands. It shakes up to be two files, the rest of his paperwork for the week. It’s Wednesday. Emily clenches her jaw, forcing herself not to roll her eyes. It’s almost unfair. Stupid genius. Until she spots Reid turning those obnoxiously red converse towards the catwalk, towards Hotch’s office.</p><p>“Reid,” calling out his name effectively halts him. She shakes her head, a warning look in her eye. “I wouldn’t.” She knows he saw Hotch make his way back to his office about ten minutes ago. What Reid must not have seen were their boss’ quick pace and clenched fist. Hotch’s office is not a safe space for anyone other than Hotch until the man calms down. </p><p>Reid frowns, obvious confusion. It makes Emily frown too. How does a profiler miss every sign of hostility written clear across an entire body? Let alone their boss, a man that they see and interact with nearly daily. </p><p>Emily tilts her head, “you’re going to Hotch’s office, right? To drop off those files?” As their interaction drags on Emily begins to grow just as confused as Reid. He nods to her question and Emily frowns. “I would wait until tomorrow… he looked pretty angry coming back from his meeting with Strauss.”</p><p>Reid standing like a statue has drawn the attention of the others and now Reid and Emily are not the only confused parties. </p><p>Morgan sets his pen down, “I saw him come through, Princess. He looked pretty normal to me.” Morgan kicks his feet up on his desk, leaning back in his chair. She’s distracted him and she wonders if some of Hotch’s frustration earlier is going to be taken out on Morgan. He’s almost never late with paperwork but he does tend to push it. That aggravates Hotch. Not enough to cause them to butt heads but it’s enough to put a small upset in Hotch’s already bad day. </p><p>Emily shakes her head. Hotch is rather stoic, the silent strong type. It’s not aggressive just withdrawn. “Wha-” she shuts her mouth with an audible crack. It occurs to just as she opens her mouth that she can’t tell them. If Hotch knew that she had put together one of his tics it would drive him crazy. If he knew about more than two…</p><p>She clears her throat, flicking her hair back from her face. “Go give them to him, then.” It’s an afterthought but it occurs to her, loudly and taunting, that both of the behaviors she committed to be tics might simply be nothing. </p><p>Reid and Morgan both recognize Emily’s tic. She’s figured something out. Immediately, Morgan sees it as a game. He smiles. Reid does not. Emily’s figured something out and that’s not good because she’s keeping this information to herself. Morgan just speaks first.</p><p>He looks pleased, like a cat releasing a mouse from under his paw to enjoy the chase. He nods, “okay.” Morgan smiles, nodding to Reid. “Go on pretty boy.”</p><p>Reid looks between them. Stuck. He’s always the mouse. “I-I…” Now he doesn’t want to go up there. What if Hotch is in a bad mood? </p><p>Morgan smacks Reid’s hip, attempting to spur him on. “Oh come on, pretty boy.” He laughs at Reid, “you know he can’t stay mad at you. Take one for the team!”</p><p>Reid can’t see how this would qualify is at all helpful to the team. Statistically, Emily and Morgan get him into trouble. He really should take these files to Hotch though. “Fine.”</p><p>They watch him settle his shoulders and nod his head, setting off on his mission. It takes six minutes versus the normal three. Emily glances down at her watch, breathing sigh, “come on.” It’s beginning to feel like they’ve sent him into an office with an UNSUB. The blinds move, someone’s moving. Emily hadn’t noticed that Hotch shut his blinds. </p><p>Reid comes out a moment later, shutting the door behind himself. His mouth is open, eyebrows pinched. They can see his brain working, nearly hearing the hum of those generators kicking in. When he gets to them, he looks to Emily, “you were right but-” He shakes his head, the right words to explain what happened escaping him. “Something is wrong.”</p><p>Reid joins them in the bullpen once again, sitting in his chair like he’s seen a ghost. Emily eats his behavior up, nerves flaring under her skin as she thinks of the hundred things that could be bothering their boss. Post-traumatic stress, they've been trained to see it but when the person exhibiting it wrote the evaluation questions and knows every trick in the book… He could have an earache, according to his last medical report his left eardrum never really healed all the way. It could be anything ranging from life-threatening to just a headache or a bad mood.</p><p>She’s just about to lay into quizzing him <i>“did he look in pain?” “was he mad?”</i> when Hotch’s office door opens. </p><p>He stands at the door for a minute, eyes scanning over them. “Conference room in five,” he declares darkly. “We have a case.”</p><p>Emily and Derek share a glance before rising from their chairs. It’s unsaid but neither are going to let the matter at hand go, not yet.</p><p>--------------------</p><p>Hotch notices the shift in the behavior of the team. </p><p>Garcia greets him with professionalism, not even slipping in a nickname that plays on his last name. No, “my liege” or “Hotch Rocket” just “sir”. It makes him feel guilty and he wonders what all the team has picked up on.</p><p>JJ passes him a tea when she and Dave come back from a crime scene. It’s black tea and it strikes him as odd but only for a moment. He’s taken back to years before when he and Haley were still married and Gideon was still on the team. He’d have a cup of black tea on the jet to soothe his nerves. The tea would provide enough coffee to keep him from falling asleep on his drive home without keeping him up all night. The others have coffee.</p><p>Hotch nearly misses Morgan and he considers this both annoying and a testimony to how relaxed Morgan’s gotten with age. He doesn’t comment when Morgan passes him a sandwich at 1:30 or even when Morgan offers to drive him back to the hotel for the night. </p><p>Dave is far less secretive. He does his dramatic speech, talking about one thing but heavily insinuating he’s talking about Hotch.</p><p>By the end of the first day of their case, he’s exhausted. He can’t keep dodging Reid’s anxious rambles, the genius’ idea of comfort. Morgan keeps giving him food and on good days he struggles with three meals let alone the four or more sandwiches Morgan tries to make him choke down. He might harm Dave.</p><p>“Hey.” </p><p>He sighs. Tired and bothered he’d rather close himself off to the world but Emily’s standing in the doorway to his room with a blanket and a bucket of popcorn. </p><p>She offers him a tentative smile, “I can’t sleep.”</p><p>He resigns himself to a similar fate. He hasn’t slept well all week now that there’s the added stress of a new case. It's safe to say he won’t be sleeping at all. So, he opens his door and beckons her in. They share the space of his bed, her pajamas, and him stripped of his tie and shoes. </p><p>“It’s heated,” she tells him with a proud grin plugging it into the outlet by his head. They settle with it around their shoulders, leaning back as Jaws plays on the old tv in front of them. An hour, hell maybe it’s just ten minutes, passes and Emily’s head falls to his shoulder. She hesitates before speaking. “Something’s off,” she admits, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “Are you okay?”</p><p>His eyes don’t leave the TV. He opens his mouth, <i>I’m fine</i>, threatening it’s way out. He gets the feeling that Emily won’t appreciate that answer. He glances at her, frowning as he considers what his answer should be. "Tired, " he shakes his head. "It's exhausting being a single parent."</p><p>She lifts her head, frowning. Unsure of where he's going to take this. Hotch doesn't do self-deprecating humor. </p><p>He senses her unease. Clarifying, he adds, "everyone congratulates me. I never have the nerve to tell them about Haley.” He blows a puff of air from his nose, shaking his head. His eyes fall to his lap. He swallows thickly, thinking about the last woman who put her hand on his shoulder and told him he was brave. He was a good man.</p><p>None of those strangers know a thing. They don’t know he’s the reason Jack doesn't have a mother. That he’s an absent father and while he is better than his own father he is not a good father. His face falls, overwhelmed with exhaustion and guilt. “His teachers, his friend’s parents, people at the park…” He sighs defeatedly, “every day. Everything is a reminder.” Of his failure… of Foyet… </p><p>The nine scars littering his chest don’t help. </p><p> Emily isn’t sure what to say. Their conversation from the jet, discussing bad days comes to mind. Then she remembers what he said about her overcompensating by offering him parenting advice. She shakes her head with a small chuckle, “not sure what to say here, Hotch. JJ would probably be the better fit.”</p><p>“No,” he admits reaching between them and squeezing her hand. “I want to talk to you.” </p><p>She looks down at their hands. “I think,” she admits, slowly looking into his eyes for any flash of emotion that says she should refrain from speaking. “I think you're too hard yourself.” She squeezes his hand back, smiling even if it doesn’t make it to her eyes. </p><p>He clears his throat, averting his eyes. She can sense the shift and they both recognize the conversation is over. Her words hit their mark. He looks back up to the movie, deciding the next conversation. “What do you think about the profile?”</p><p>She understands the conversation hasn’t changed at all. They’ve profiled their UNSUB and from the looks of it, he’s a father. Abusive, in a job of power, and too good at covering it up. He’s escalated and Hotch knows the type too well. Their next victim will most likely be their UNSUBs child and by then their chase will be done. He’ll kill himself. </p><p>Emily frowns, “I just want to find the son of a bitch.” She knows what he wants to hear. He needs a reason to hate himself and he’ll use the profile to do it. “Get the kid.” She knows him too well to play into this. He’s never said it, they’ve never profiled it… it’s unspoken. It’s a cruel kind of irony that the alpha men on their team were abused. “I just hope we’re not too late.”</p><p>They almost are. </p><p>One last victim, just as they predicted, is the UNSUBs son and the kid has given up. Hotch kicks in the door, for a moment there’s a flash something oddly familiar in his eyes. Desperation. It scares Emily, rightfully so.</p><p>“Hotch!” </p><p>He hits the ground but gunshots keep ringing out around them. Emily’s attention is pulled to her own life, surviving the hail of bullets around them. Everyone’s shouting fueled with adrenaline and anger. No one’s thinking, just moving.</p><p>“Clear! He’s down!”</p><p>Emily lowers her gun, pushing it back into the holster at her hip. Her eyes scan the room, looking for Hotch. If he’s okay, he would have already gotten up by now. Blinded, she looks over the heads of the other men looking for his taller frame. She walks into a leg. Slowly, her eyes track up the long leg, and her heart drops. “Hotch.”</p><p>He’s got his right hand pressed into his side, leaning half-upright on the wall behind him. Eyes half-lidded, a thousand-yard stare. Blood has stained his shirt and he looks miserable. “Emily,” he grunts, eyes making their way to her face. </p><p>She crouches down beside him, pressing her comm. “We need a bus, Hotch is down.” Her radio, his too, becomes loud as the team takes in Emily’s request. She can faintly hear Morgan yelling outside, cussing. “Let me see,” she moves his fingers away, frowning when she realizes that his grip was doing nothing to stop the blood flow. When she looks up she sees his bloodshot eyes looking back at her, all color drained from his face. </p><p>“Ambulance…” he’s already losing his battle with the blood loss. He swallows thickly against the dryness in his mouth. “It’s not gonna make it.” <i>I’m not gonna make it</i>.</p><p>Emily looks down at where her hands are not pressing his into the wound. He’s right. “Rossi,” she calls into her comm. “I’m gonna bring Hotch to you, have the car ready.” The older man replies something along the lines ‘bad idea’ but she’s already talked Hotch into without even asking.</p><p>“I can do it,” he grunts, struggling to his right leg under him. She takes the brunt of his weight, feeling his body tremble weakly against her. “Emily-” he gasps as he right himself on his feet, leaning more than he wants to on her. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” The reassurances come too quickly after one another. She doesn’t believe him.</p><p>Morgan is driving, throwing the driver’s door open when they stumble their way to the door.</p><p>“Help or get out of the way,” Hotch grunts when the other agent pauses a moment too long just standing in silent terror. He’s tired and in pain. Not in a good mood.</p><p>Tucked between Morgan and Emily, they cover the remainder of the distance in no time. </p><p>“I’ve got him,” Emily gets in first, pulling Hotch into her lap as Morgan shuts the door. She moves him gently, allowing him to curl his long legs into the seat and rest his head on her thigh.</p><p>The drive seems to never end, Morgan just keeps turning but they're making no progress. </p><p>“You two good?”</p><p>Emily looks down at Hotch, his tired gaze locked on hers. His normally well-kept hair is laying in disarray atop his head, her hand having swept through it several times in her attempts to soothe him. He’s fallen silent, no longer even moaning when Morgan takes a turn a little too hard. She shakes her head, “not for much longer, can’t you go any faster?”</p><p>He smells like blood in her lap. Coppery and slippery and so unlike Hotch. It makes her stomach twist like he’s betrayed her in some way. The car rocks and he goes limply with it, his eyes blinking owlishly up at her as he leans his temple into her stomach. She wishes to take his pain away, hasn’t he been through a enough? Hasn’t it all been enough?</p><p>His eyes slide shut a moment too long and she shakes him as gently as she can manage. “Hey,” she chides, voice thick with betraying emotion. “Hey, you with me?”</p><p>He blinks his eyes back open, taking a moment to focus on her. “I’m with ya’.”</p><p>She runs her fingers through his hair, his skin too cold. “Morgan, please,” she begs. His skin is rapidly becoming too cold, his lips the color of his ashy skin. His eyes are open but he sees nothing. “He’s in shock!”</p><p>Morgan hits the brakes hard, the air screeching as they come to a sudden halt in the parking lot. His tactic gets them the attention they need. By the time he’s out the door and a few standing EMTs and on break nurses wander over to see what’s happening tears are pouring down Emily’s face. Morgan stands frozen for a terrifying moment. Shocked by the image of Emily utterly broken with Hotch completely slack in her arms. </p><p>Hotch is pulled from her arms and she can do nothing but sob brokenly. She’s pulled into Rossi’s arms, softer than the nurse who broke Emily’s staggering gait to follow Hotch. “It’s okay,” Rossi soothes but she hears nothing that he has to say. Eyes unable to tear away from the glass window in front of her. The nurses shredding Hotch’s pants, ruining his tie.</p><p>“He’ll be okay.”</p><p>--------------</p><p>The rain comes down hard outside. His thoughts feel muddled, senses overwhelmed. He’s only conscious of the sound of the rain. He watches the droplets race down the window, dark eyes half-lidded. The sight of him makes Emily feel tight overwhelming grief in her stomach. At one point in his life, Haley would be sitting in front of him. She would be holding his hand and cooing over how brave he was, how glad she is that he’s okay.</p><p>Now, he’s a little past middle age. His once messy black hair is peppered with grey and she’s pretty sure he cuts his own hair.  He’s laying on his side, left arm protectively wrapped around his side, and he’s alone. No one is taking his hand. No one is soothing his fear or pain away. He’s laying in a hospital bed, slowly falling asleep while Rossi and Morgan talk about him like he isn’t in the room. Haley is dead in a cemetery only a ten-minute drive from here. </p><p>“Hotch,” she slides into the chair on his right, blocking his view of the rainy window. “Can I get you anything? Water?” She doesn’t take his hand, doesn’t breach that line. He doesn’t say anything, slowly his eyes just move over to her and he shakes his head. She swallows thickly, “okay. Don’t get too comfortable, alright? I think Rossi’s trying to bust you out.”</p><p>He doesn’t react. Dark eyes remain drifted to just over her shoulder. </p><p>“You not gonna talk to me now?” she asks. He’s got every right to be angry or whatever it is that he’s feeling. They’re creating parallels to the first time she sat by his side in a hospital. His dark eyes haunted and her by his side. Hoping to get him to say something, to open up so he’s not swallowed whole. Just like the first time, he’s frustrated and silent. </p><p>So much has changed but, mostly, they've just gotten older.</p><p>He looks over at her, frowning. She recognizes it as just his resting face, a little too tired it seems rougher than usual. He shakes his head, “not much to talk about.” Fair but not true. </p><p>Emily shakes her head, can’t help but smile. “Nothing?” She can remember the number of times she sat on his couch after he was released from the hospital talking about nothing and everything. “Have we really run out of conversation? After all this time?” It seems impossible.  </p><p>Rossi clears his throat, “don’t get comfortable.” He looks between the two of them, glancing down at his watch. “Derek’s pulling the car around.” </p><p>Emily shakes her head, Rossi knows how to pull hospital strings, but after three days in this awful place, she imagines Hotch is just as desperate to leave as they are. </p><p>The ride home is short. With the threat of bodily harm and sedated with a handful of pills, Rossi leaves Hotch in her hands. Promising to come back in an hour with dinner, long before Hotch should wake up from his medicated nap. Except when he gets back, neither are anywhere to be found.</p><p>Rossi is blinded with worry, at first. The apartment he left had one (1) six-foot, fairly crippled unit chief asleep on the couch and one (1) mischievous but level-headed co-conspirator of the aforementioned couch sleeper. He sets the bags in his hands down and hears the two of them fussing. He can’t help his fond smile at the sound, just like old times. </p><p>“I <i>promised</i>, Prentiss!”</p><p>Rossi turns the corner and sees Emily place her hands on her hips. “Aaron, do not- You’re awful at lying and <i>so</i>, so self-loathing that you would have bled to death on this floor before you even dared call out for help.” She makes a mocking sound at the back of her throat, “not to mention your ego!”</p><p>The bathroom door is cracked just enough that he can see Hotch open his mouth but shuts it quickly. He clenches his jaw and glares at Emily. Which would be scary under different circumstances. The glare is currently coming from a man with a child’s Yoda towel wrapped around his waist and soaking wet black hair sitting messily atop his head. There’s just something unthreatening about this glare. </p><p>Before their argument can venture any further, Rossi clears his throat. Both of them jerk to attention, eyes finding him with frowns that remind Rossi of children caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “Emily,” he says first and ignores the way Hotch’s lip lifts just slightly in triumph that she’s getting in trouble. “Stop terrorizing the poor man. Go to the kitchen, I’ll need your help in there.” He settles his eyes on Hotch, shaking his head, “get some clothes on.”</p><p>He turns his back on them, making his way to the kitchen. He realizes two things: Emily isn’t following and they are arguing again just very softly. “Children!” </p><p>Emily mumbles something that sounds rather rude but she steps away.</p><p>“And Aaron?” Rossi looks over his shoulder, “put on sweatpants, son. I’d hate to send Emily into your room to make you change your pants.” </p><p>They get the kitchen before Rossi says anything else, Emily dutifully following him. “How is he?” All jokes aside, they’re speaking as Hotch’s friends. Not the people keeping him hostage while he heals. </p><p>Emily considers Hotch’s behavior for a moment. “He was sore and sluggish when he woke up,” she intentionally lies because Rossi would kill her if she said she woke him up. “The shower loosened him up.” Which reminds her, “he is definitely ready for another dose of painkillers though.”</p><p>Rossi hums as he sets out his goodies. It takes him only a moment to figure out where Hotch keeps his pots and pans and from there it takes him only a moment to have water boiling. Knowing that between Hotch and Emily, he’s going to be distracted Rossi decides to use them against one another. “Leave me to my pasta,” he orders. “Go help Hotch into a flannel.”</p><p>She makes her way back to his room, surprised to find Hotch didn’t lock his bedroom door. She knocks, “Hotch? Can I come in?” There’s a grunt from somewhere in the room and she takes that as a yes. She’s still hesitant as she opens the door. She finds him standing in the middle of the floor, arm tucked against his side, and a shirt dangling from his fingertips.</p><p>“Come to mock me?” His sharp tone is easily forgiven. He’s vulnerable and exhausted and in pain. He can’t even put a suit on to hideaway. </p><p>She shakes her head, taking the shirt from his hand. She runs her hand over the collar, smiling when she sees the superman logo on its front. </p><p>“Jack,” Hotch clarifies, eyes locked on the shirt. </p><p>She smiles, “I miss him.” She is reminding of how far apart they’ve grown since Doyle. And the way  Jack was turning into his father’s spitting image when she left for London the last time. There was something eerily haunting the way they both looked at her. Their shoulders sagged, eyes filled to the brim with tears, but holding it together. Her boys… </p><p>He smiles sadly, “he’s, uh, not my biggest fan right now.”  </p><p>Emily looks over at him, shirt forgotten. She doubts the love between Jack and his father have changed that much while she’s been gone. Stubborn and intuitive, it’s not that hard to believe they’ve butted heads as Jack gets older. “I’m sorry.” She shakes herself from her thoughts, recalling why it is that she’s really here. </p><p>She puts the superman shirt back on its hanger, aware that Hotch is watching her every move. Opting for the softest flannel she can find she turns back to him. “This will probably be easier to put on.” Recognizes the loathing look in his eyes, the way his body screams ‘I should have thought of that’. But he doesn’t fight her as she helps him into it. She’s not sure if that’s good or not. </p><p>Both their heads snap up at the sound of the front door, rowdy laughing, and Morgan’s booming voice. “Looks like they’re here,” Emily says, fingers still attacking the buttons on his shirt. She wonders if his heart is pounding, afraid of being found in his room half-naked with her. </p><p>She wonders, what does his team knows about the real Aaron Hotchner. That anything they need to know about their mysterious boss is written in his hands. Interlaced, clenched, twisted, or dancing. His emotions wound so tight under his pale skin that Emily was certain one day she’d see him burst. Interlaced and he won’t standstill. Long legs walking circles </p><p>Interlaced, he can’t stand in one place. Calculative. Cold. His long legs will walk holes into the floor, his interlaced fingers in front of him, dark brown eyes taking in everything around him. Prosecutor. His eyes flash dark and his tie bleeds into his ink-black suits. Interlaced fingers make a point, have a mission.</p><p>Clenched, his arms are by his sides. Wound tight, he won’t move from where he stands unless absolutely necessary. It’s fear, disgust, and 7anger. His voice won’t waver and tears won’t fall but he will shut himself down. Dark eyebrows slanted down, lips drawn into a thin line. </p><p>Twisted. The golden band that used to rest on his left ring finger took the brunt of this mask. Anxious. He’s searching for an answer he believes to be right on the tip of his tongue. Time is ticking away but no one is more aware of that than him. </p><p>She’s only ever seen him dance a few times. Once with Haley, his smiles so large and unnatural. She’d never seen him smile before. Dancing is joy, its ease. His fingers wiggling at his side, ghosting against his pant legs. He’s content and believes himself to be… unseen.</p><p>She hopes, for their sake, that they understand him that well. Not emotionless. He’s protective, would die for each and every one of them. </p><p>The laughter of the team dies down and Emily finds herself standing in her old boss’ bedroom, stuck. “Are you…” is he ready to face his team? He’s by no means looking like himself. His hair is drying at all kinds of angles on his head, he’s wearing an old flannel not an ironed button-down, and grey sweatpants. </p><p>There’s a knock at the door, Jack sticks his head in. He looks between them, “uh, Dave sent me back. Dinners ready.” He nods awkwardly, knocking his hand against the door before leaving them.</p><p>Hotch looks over at her, sad brown eyes a clear unspoken ‘see?’. To Emily, it just looks like Jack’s turning into a teenager. He sighs, “I suppose we should…”</p><p>Emily follows tentatively, watching. His gait is steady, side flaring up with pain that he hides nearly perfectly. She’s seen men trained to hide their pain fail to hide it as well as he does now. Gait straight, steady… He’s been trained as well but not at Interpol or Langley to be a spy. The kind of training that happens at birth under a smother hand, an abusive hand. </p><p>Stoic, she only sees what he allows. Tight-lipped frown, stiff shoulders. He’s uncomfortable, stiffening each time he’s pulled into a hug or touched. He’s silent, never utters a complaint so they never back away. As far as anything is concerned, he’s his usual silent self. Not much to read into. </p><p>“Alright,” Rossi smacks the wooden spoon against the counter, gathering their attention. “File in kiddos,” he moves the pot onto a towel on the counter removing the lid. “Food’s ready.”</p><p>They file out of Hotch’s living room, a glorified bachelor pad. After Haley’s death, they all pitched in, stumbling to find solutions they could fix before they became overwhelming for Hotch. </p><p>JJ helped him pick out an elementary school to send Jack to. Rossi picks Jack up from school every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, an excuse to keep them out of the apartment and to force Jack to eat something that’s not Macaroni and cheese. Reid gifts books by extravagant authors, entertaining Hotch with a conversation on complicated plots and moral alignments. Morgan spent a Saturday putting together Jack’s “big boy” bed and had a beer. Garcia made cookies and cakes, anything to put some weight back on Hotch and brighten Jack’s day. </p><p>Emily became his best friend. They went through a lot together. Matthews' death, Foyet’s attack, Haley’s death, and her own death. Most of which seemed to fall on his shoulders. Even on his best days, he couldn’t shake the tremendous guilt of his actions. </p><p>It turns out, none of them took on the job of making sure he decorated his home. That one might fall on her.</p><p>“Jack, if you-” </p><p>Jack looks Rossi right in the eye and crushes the crackers in his hands, allowing his open palm to spill them into his soup. “If I what, Uncle Dave?” He eats enough of Rossi’s food to know that he’s not <i>‘allowed’</i> to add crackers, salt, bread, or anything else to his dishes. He also gets an enormous kick out of torturing his stand-in grandfather. </p><p>Hotch shakes his head, the others muffling laughter between Jack’s rebellious faux confusion and Rossi’s horrified open mouth glare. “Don’t terrorize him, Jack.” He only lightly fusses, it’s good for Rossi to be picked on just a little. Jack is the only person who can pick at David Rossi and not get buried in sass. </p><p>Jack rolls his eyes, scooping up a mouthful of crackers from his soup. “It tastes better with crackers,” he mumbles looking at his father to see his reaction.</p><p>Hotch cracks the smallest smile, “I know.”</p><p>Rossi sighs, shaking his head as another, a softer round of laughter fills the dining room. Despite the rebellion brewing between father and son, Rossi is at least glad the apartment feels light. “You’re both dirty traitors,” he declares pointing his own spoon at the pair.</p><p>Reid draws the attention to the other end of the table, rattling off Italian food fun facts. Emily is distracted for only a moment before she catches the slight tremor in Hotch’s right hand, his left pressed to the side of his head. He’s in pain, hunched over himself. Silent, she excuses herself from the table. </p><p>Hotch doesn’t notice. His ear is ringing furiously and light-headed with pain and an empty stomach. He's focused on standing up in the next five minutes and not passing out. So focused it takes him a moment to notice Emily coming to his side. The soup, broth too light for him to be able to keep it on a spoon, is not going to be enough for the heavy pain meds he’s going to take. </p><p>He glances up at Emily as she pulls the soup away, replacing it with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Cut in half, she’s placed his pills on the right-hand side. </p><p>She doesn’t say a word about it. “Come on,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “Do you really expect me to believe that?”</p><p>Hotch looks up at her and over to Reid, not a single one of them is drawing attention to his food switch. </p><p>Reid looks confused, “it’s biological science.”</p><p>The others laugh at his expense but Hotch can’t tear his eyes away from Emily. He’s fallen, madly in love and he’s so screwed. His eyes scan over her face as she laughs, his own chest lightening. </p><p>Did it really take all this to make him realize? </p><p>Emily looks down at him, still laughing at whatever is being said.</p><p>He's so screwed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Anyways, kinda wanna write a fic where the team actually helps Hotch out after Foyett bc he was really going through it and they really just watch from afar</p></blockquote></div></div>
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